But Becky doesn’t really hear him. She glances at the bin and then at her daughter taking receipt of an enormous citric-orange cocktail, a delighted smile painted across her face. Becky’s stomach contracts. She does not think of all the positive ways in which her daughter might see her: as a bold, young producer, someone who tackles big issues, someone who understands characters and stories and storytellers. In that moment, all Becky sees is what she’s passed down to her daughter: toxic offerings and her own shame – repackaged, reconstituted, nothing to do with her and yet, still, the shame that is having a mother who is spoken about in the same sentence as the words sexual harassment.

Becky feels like such a fraud standing there on the soft marl carpet. She feels … dirty.

Adam leans in, his shoulder brushing Becky’s, as if he senses she needs reassurance. They are touching each other in the way they have contrived so many times in the past – through doorways, knees brushing under the table – always moving away, snooker balls glancing against each other, but this time is different. This time they are both aware of entering each other’s space and how the atmosphere is warmer and more magnetic there.

She turns to him and says, ‘I think I want to leave.’

Maisie has arranged the cocktails on a low table and is examining a leaflet.

‘If you don’t want the boss paying,’ says Adam. ‘I’ll pay. She’s really happy. Look at her.’

‘No, it’s not that. You don’t need to do that. Please don’t do that.’ She wants for them to run from here and pitch their own moth-eaten bell tent in a field near the beach, to buy a portable barbecue and beers, to sit by a fire and sing eighties power ballads. ‘I feel spoiled. It’s making me uncomfortable.’

‘Your daughter is extremely comfortable with it, I must say.’

‘So should I just suck it up?’

‘Yes, Becks. Try to suck up all the free luxury pampering. And if you can’t handle it, I’ll scout around for a bin for you to sleep in.’

She laughs, and it produces tears. ‘God. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’

‘Working too hard?’

‘I should be grateful, shouldn’t I?’

‘You should try and enjoy it.’

She considers Adam’s point: how Maisie would feel to have something so nice given to her and then taken away in less than ten minutes. And what reason could Becky then offer her for such mean-spiritedness?

‘Look at it this way,’ says Adam, equitably. ‘From Maisie’s point of view she’s being spoiled and pampered for a special birthday. That’s a nice thing, isn’t it?’

It’s only later that Becky comes back to what he has said: did Adam talk about Maisie’s point of view because, from his, it looks different? Like a bribe. Like blood money. He’d be too careful to say it outright. She wants so much to know what he thinks but doesn’t know where to begin or even if she should.